POEM: Sweep

Bristles flex against the flagstone.

Like Bruce Lee with his nunchaku,

she works two brooms at once.

Unlike Bruce,

she lacks fury and showmanship.

She’s oblivious an audience has formed.

Like Bruce, her body is coordinated,

capable of describing two arcs,

in two separate directions,

at once.

The soft scraping sounds

of two bundles of bristles

is the neighborhood’s wake-up call.

The hush whispers of leaves skittering

is the subdued scream

that cannot be ignored.

Like a demonic whisper,

all that’s quiet is not gentle.

[National Poetry Month, Poem #23]

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